Warnings (for the whole story, chapters will be labeled with warnings appropriate for that chapter except language because that's going to be a constant): Strong language, non-explicit torture of a not main character, references to sexual activity, mentioned torture of a main character, deaths of side characters, death of main character (in accordance with canon).
Spoilers: To be safe, Supernatural Seasons 1-4. I mess around with Season 4, but there are definitely spoilers for important parts of it.
Dean rubs the back of his head with his hand and looks down at his glass of Coke. Sadly, it has no rum in it. Dean likes a good buzz, and while he'd like a drink before going to what might be his death, he knows better than to hunt a werewolf with alcohol in his system. He needs all hands on deck for this.
He's probably more pumped than he should be about tracking this werewolf. Werewolves aren't quite as exciting as the movies, but chasing it will give him a good adrenaline rush. He hasn't had one of those in a while. He understands the necessity of tracking down and destroying ghosts, because they can do some pretty nasty damage, but research is boring and salting and burning bones is so mundane. Plus, his back always hurts the morning after digging up a corpse.
Dean looks up to see a guy slide into the chair next to him. He's in a tight black sleeveless top that clings to his body, outlining the ridges of his ab muscles and the hard planes of his pecs. There's a knowing smile on the guy's face, and when he leans his arms on the bar, Dean can't help but notice that the guy is ripped. Instant man crush. Bicep envy, the whole nine yards. Dean's man enough to admit it.
Dean chuckles and picks up his glass. "Oh, it hasn't even gotten started. I'm Dean by the way." Dean doesn't usually act this forward with men in bars, but he's bored, the guy's attractive, and if he looks past the guy's shoulder he can keep an eye on his mark without making it obvious that he's staring at her. So really, he's doing this for the sake of the job.
The guy reaches out his hand. "Clint. So what do you have in store that's gotten you all down?"
Oh, nothing much, Dean thinks, just hunting down a werewolf that's been leaving a trail of heartless corpses all over Northwestern Pennsylvania. He's excited for the hunt, not so excited about the waiting part. He sneaks a peek at Miss Werewolf and sees her working her way through her third martini. He wonders how many it'll take for her to finally leave the bar. He has enough self-preservation not to gank her in the bar, but it's tempting. It's really tempting.
Night hunts are the worst, because by the time he's done and showered all the blood and gore off and patched up whatever wounds he's gotten, it's usually too late to find an open bar which means no women. There are two things Dean likes after a good a hunt. A cold beer and a good fuck. He thinks tonight he'll have to settle for just the beer.
Dean picks up his glass and swirls the contents around. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"You'd be surprised," Clint says. "What I want to know is why an attractive young guy is sitting alone at a bar, drinking a plain soda. You could have any girl is this bar."
Dean's curious as to how Clint knows Dean doesn't have any rum in his Coke, but he decides to preen under the compliment instead of questioning the man. "Tell me something I don't know."
Clint leans in and puts a hand on Dean's leg. His fingers spread across the denim, his thumb grazing the inside seam. "You could have any guy too."
Dean's not used to men being so forward with him, especially in this part of the country, and he's starting to wish he didn't have a job to do tonight.
Dean slouches just enough to slide Clint's hand forward and cocks a challenging eyebrow. "I thought I said for you to tell me something I don't know.
Clint laughs and pulls his hand back. "That girl over there is checking you out." He nods toward the blond werewolf. "And she looks like trouble."
"Oh, she is," Dean says. "We're going to have a little tussle tonight."
"Oh?" Clint asks.
Dean flashes a smile that isn't supposed to be comforting. "I'm going to take her for a hell of a ride." He tosses a five dollar bill on the table. "Maybe I'll see you here tomorrow night."
"I'm not one for sloppy seconds," Clint says.
Dean laughs. "I promise you, it wouldn't be sloppy."
He winks before going to find Anya. She's leaning against the bar, a drink casually in one hand as she surveys the room. Her hips are jutted out, her legs slightly spread, an invitation that no one in the bar is taking her up on. They can probably sense that there's something not quite right. Dean's the only one crazy enough to go up to her. It gives him a little swagger to his step, and he gives her his most charming smile.
"You got big plans for the night?" he asks. Besides hunting down people and eating their hearts? He brightens his smile.
She raises an interested eyebrow. "I might."
She grins and pulls Dean flush against her. "All depends on how big you are."
Oh, wow, Dean thinks as she leans down to kiss him. Too bad she's a werewolf. He weaves a hand through her hair and kisses her back, focusing on the smooth slide of her lips and the hard press of her mouth instead of what she is.
He slips a hand into her back pocket as he pulls back. "Want to take this somewhere more private?"
She grins. "You have no idea."
They make it to an abandoned alley before she shoves him up against a wall. His back slams up against a building and she grinds her hips against him as she presses her mouth to his. He kisses her back, one hand fisted in her hair, the other reaching down to get his silver knife.
She's aggressive, which he likes, but he finds himself wishing that her arms were muscled, her frame more compact. Really? He's supposed to be killing a werewolf and instead he's wishing that she was some random guy he met in a bar? That's embarrassing.
"You're distracted," she says, her breath warm against his lips as she pulls back. She pauses as she spies him reaching underneath is coat.
"Whatchya looking for there?" she asks. She follows his hand into his jeans and hisses as she pulls out his knife. She tosses it aside and suddenly she looks pissed. She knocks him aside as easily as the knife and Dean hits his head on the asphalt.
Oh, damn it. Things were already not going according to plan. He rolls out of the way as she lunges at him, her fingers giving way to claws. He should've rethought this plan. Like not take her out on the night of a full moon. She picks him up and hurls him to the other side of the alley.
He can hear her feet scraping against the asphalt. She's coming for him. He reaches into his pants for his gun. He should be grateful that she didn't find it when she was feeling him up for weapons.
His hands are aching and bloodied from where they got cut up on the ground and he gets his gun up in time to see her leaping at him. He pulls the trigger and catches her in the arm which keeps her from landing on him, but it also pisses her off.
He springs to his feet and shoots her again. Thigh this time. After he gets out of this, he's going to get a stiff drink and then hit the shooting range. He can't believe he's missed twice. She's not going to give him many more opportunities.
Suddenly there's gunfire all around him, and she's twisting and jerking. Dean scans the area to see men positioned in the windows of the buildings surrounding them. What the hell? She crumples to the ground and they stop firing.
Dean cocks his gun and aims for her heart. He's going to kill the bitch this time.
"Sir, put the gun down," a disembodied voice says and suddenly there's a bright light shining on Dean, and he can't see.
He holds a hand up, but it doesn't help. "Look, I don't know what you jackasses are doing, moving in on my kill, but since you didn't actually kill her, could you let me do my job?"
"She's dead," the voice says. "Put your gun down or we will open fire on you."
Dean rolls his eyes and lays his gun down on the ground. He's not going to risk shooting her without a clear shot, because that would make sacrificing his life pointless. He can hear her stirring though, and he wonders if these idiots realize that they've just managed to royally piss off a werewolf. Doubtful. Only hunters know how to kill werewolves and they never travel in groups this large.
Dean dives to the side and barely manages to keep from getting killed. He does get a nice gash in his arm and he curses as he fumbles around for either of his weapons. The werewolf kicks the gun away so there goes that option.
He spots his knife a few feet away and he dives for it, getting his hand wrapped around the handle in time for his arm to be ripped back. Pain flares and he's pretty sure he's just dislocated his shoulder. As soon as he's done with this werewolf bitch he's going after whoever screwed with his hunt.
He gets flipped onto his back, and he raises his knife. He's not going to be fast enough. He has a second to register that thought and hope that his dad doesn't miss him too much when he hears another bullet fired. Anya jerks as a bullet embeds in her skull, and Dean takes advantage of her momentary shock to drive his knife through her chest.
Of course, that means he's now pinned to the ground by a dead werewolf, and she's bleeding all over his shirt. He'll have to steal a couple from the local Wal-Mart before he leaves town. He looks up to see the guy from the bar walking towards him, gun raised.
"What the hell?" Dean asks, shoving Anya off of him with his good arm. Yep, his shirt is definitely ruined.
The man shrugs. "Not the kind of ride you were hoping for?"
"Would've gone fine if you and your friends hadn't messed things up," Dean says getting to his feet. He's battered and his muscles are already starting to tense up. He needs to get back to the motel so he can fix his shoulder and take a nice long bath.
"We saved your ass," Clint says.
"You saved? What?" Dean laughs. "You're crazy. She would've killed all of you while you uselessly emptied your clips in her. Sorry to break it to you, but I got the kill shot. Well, not quite shot, but I did kill her."
"I shot her in the head," Clint says, folding his arms over his chest.
Mm, biceps, Dean thinks before shaking himself. He needs to focus. He's battling for his honor right now. "Did you notice how shooting her repeatedly did nothing? Silver to the heart. Only way to kill her."
Clint raises his eyebrows. "You're shitting me."
Dean shrugs and then swears as it sends pain shooting down his arm and through his shoulder. "Look, I really don't care if you believe me. I got my kill, and I'm still alive so it's a good day. Well, night. Speaking of, time for me to go before I change my mind and kill you all."
"Kill us?" Clint laughs. "You really do think you're a hot shot." He loses his smile at the flash of pain on Dean's face. "Hey, why don't I help you with that shoulder, and we can get a real drink."
"You almost got me killed," Dean points out. "Why would-"
Clint pops Dean's shoulder back into place and grins at Dean's grunt of pain. "How about it's my way of saying sorry?"
"I need to get back to my motel and change. Bartenders don't like it when I get blood all over the place."
They don't make it back to the bar. Dean takes a hot shower to make up for the fact that he doesn't get to take a bath and heads into the room with nothing but a pair of boxers on. Clint, if that's even his real name, didn't take him up on the offer of using the magic fingers while Dean was showering. His loss.
Dean plops down on his bed and opens up his med kit and Clint looks over from where he's sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs that's pulled up to the card table that may or may not be trying to pass as a dining room table.
"This motel sucks," Clint says.
"Sorry I don't get a pretty government pension for what I do." Dean dabs as the claw marks he's sporting. Those are going to take a while to heal. He might have to lay off working for longer than he wanted to.
"I'm not government."
Dean laughs. "I'm not an idiot. You had men with guns in windows, you had a creepy narrator voice, you had a freakin' spot light. Plus, you knew my drink at the bar when no one but me and the bartender should've known. You're government. I won't hold it against you as long as you picked up something good from the beer distributor."
Clint holds up two six packs of Sam Adams.
Dean frowns but reaches out a hand. "I'll forgive you for going quality over quantity. It's been a while since I had a Sam Adams." He flicks the cap off and takes a long drink.
"So this kind of thing happen to you a lot?" Clint asks.
Dean has a snide comment on his tongue about how he's John Winchester's kid so hunters know better than to fuck with his hunts, and only entitled government douche bags think it's okay to stomp all over Dean's territory, but he bites it back. There's only so much shit he can give Clint before Clint decides to walk away, and Dean doesn't want Clint to leave. It's not beer and a babe, but beer and biceps are a very good substitute.
"Sadly, yes. It's my job." Dean doesn't know how 'don't be a douche' turned into 'tell the truth'. He eyes his beer warily. Government agents are sneaky, maybe Clint managed to slip in some truth potion or something on the way back from the store.
"Right." Clint pops open his own beer. "So, what exactly were we hunting? We thought it was a mutant, maybe an army experiment gone bad, but you obviously know what it is, because you knew how to kill it."
"A mutant?" Dean asks. He's never heard of those.
Clint grins. "You tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine."
"Werewolf," Dean says because what the hell. He takes another long drink of his beer and pauses. "Wait a second, you didn't know that Anya was a werewolf, but you definitely knew she was bad news. Why did you point her out to me?" Dean's eyes narrow with suspicion. "Were you using me as bait."
"Don't get your boxers in a bunch," Clint says. "If you'd shown any signs of being in distress, I would've whisked your damsel ass out of harm's way." Clint laughs and dodges the beer cap Dean flicks at his head. "Tell me more about werewolves. Do they eat all their victims' hearts?"
"Nasty things," Dean says. "I can't believe you've never heard of them. Don't you talk to your FBI buddies? The X-Files ringing any bells for you?"
"The X-Files aren't real. And what makes you think I'm not FBI?"
Dean waves his hand in Clint's general direction. "You're in skintight spandex. Something tells me that's not FBI standard issue. And no, Scully and Mulder aren't real, but I'm sure someone somewhere has a filing cabinet full of freaky things they can't explain."
"And you can explain them," Clint says. It's half-disbelief, half-genuine interest. Dean focuses on the latter half.
"World's full of evil, and I'm one of the souls brave enough to fight it." Deans grins. "So werewolves. You've got the basics already; full moon, rip out the hearts of their victims, can only be killed by silver."
Dean leans back against the headboard and finishes his beer. This is going to be a long night if he has to give a recap of every monster he's ever heard of.
"So family business?" Clint asks once they're into their third case of beer. Clint had run out to get more after the second case was finished. "And I thought my family was bad."
Dean shrugs, and he doesn't feel even a twinge of pain. The wonders of alcohol. Dean can't really argue that his family doesn't suck, because right now his brother is at Stanford pretending that the rest of the family doesn't exist and John is who the hell knows where.
John and Dean used to hunt together, but Dean knows that when they hunt together, they both feel the missing presence of the third of their triad. All Dean wants is for the three of them to hunt together. He doesn't understand why John won't go and apologize. If John and Sam just talked it out, the two of them could make it up and the three of them could blast evil together. They would make one hell of a team. But that's a dream, and one that won't ever come true.
"You sound like you have a story of your own there," Dean says.
Clint shrugs. "Dead parents. Grew up in the circus. Dick brother. You know."
Dean recognizes the wistful look on Clint's face. The face of someone who misses someone desperately, but also doesn't want to talk about. He knows all about that. "So the circus, huh? You must have learned a few good tricks there."
He gives Clint a once over, taking a moment to re-appreciate him. The dips of his biceps, the way his shirt clings to his shoulders and molds over his abs. If Dean's body didn't feel like he'd been hit by truck and then scraped up by glass he'd probably try and make a move. He's tempted to even with the injuries, but he doesn't want to embarrass himself. Besides, he hadn't thought he'd see the guy after the bar, maybe he'll see him again after this. Maybe passing up the opportunity right now doesn't mean passing it up forever.
Dean barely chokes back his laugh at that thought. The one thing hunting has taught him is to live in the present. Take risks and live life on the edge, because tomorrow you might get torn to shreds by a werewolf or ganked by a ghost.
Clint grins. "Learned more than a few." He stretches his arms over his head and it pulls his shirt up, flashing a small strip of tanned skin. "You look like you could use some flexibility work. Some strength training."
"If I wasn't half dead from kicking a werewolf's ass, I'd be kicking yours right now," Dean says.
Clint laughs and tosses him another beer. "You wish."